


Ordinary World

by Diminua



Series: Different Worlds, Same Planet. [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, M/M, Mention of grooming, Recreational Drug Use, This author has taken liberties with London's topography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-16 07:57:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diminua/pseuds/Diminua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft is about to go to Cambridge; a glittering career beckons. Lestrade is still delivering pizzas and may possibly have a commitment problem. Sherlock is just Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ordinary World

Mycroft begins the summer holidays anxious about the possibility of Gregory phoning him at home, of his parents finding out what’s going on. Especially as they’re in London for three weeks, buying his little brother Sherlock’s uniform and all the other things he’ll need for his first year of prep. Mycroft comes down too - it makes it very easy to see Greg, using the excuse of a friend from school, or pretending to be at the museum.

He’s never lied to them on this scale before, but it seems unavoidable. They’re going to be exceptionally sticky about what’s happening if they find out.

Gregory never rings though, Mycroft always does that, and within a fortnight it goes from being a relief to a worry. It’s like Greg isn’t really that bothered about seeing him, and he can’t even say anything because how can you tell someone to call you occasionally, then tell them to be subtle about it? It would sound like a nonsense.

Sherlock’s curious little nose is everywhere too. He’s reached the age where self absorption has given way to fascination with how different everyone else is. He doesn’t distract as easily as he used to either. In the end Mycroft has to tell him to mind his own business, and just ride out the monumental fit of the sulks which follows.

He’s just about become fit to live with two days later when Mycroft goes to see Greg again.

‘I’ll be at the tailors.’ Mycroft lies quite fluently now when he says goodbye to his mother. ‘And then I need to get some books.’

Mummy only smiles, unsuspecting, and kisses him on his dutifully presented cheek, but Sherlock follows him out to the lift again, hands rebelliously jammed in his pockets.

‘No-one really cares where you’re going.’ He says.

Mycroft ignores him.

 

He knows the way to Greg’s from his hotel by heart now, tube to Elephant and Castle and then the bus. So he’s brought a book along to read.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t see Sherlock sneaking after him. Losing himself in the tube crowds a little way back, hiding in a shop doorway until the bus comes then running to catch it as soon as Mycroft is on his way upstairs. Only when it decants, and Mycroft is almost at Lestrade’s door, does he realise he’s being followed.

‘Are we there yet?’ Sherlock says. He put his hands in his pockets again when Mycroft wheeled round on him, and is scuffing the toe of his shoes against the uneven paving guiltily.

None of it leavens Mycroft’s fury, caught between three equally unpalatable courses of action. He can’t take Sherlock back to the hotel without standing Greg up. He can’t send Sherlock back by himself – even if he could be trusted to go he’s much too young to be gadding about London alone; and he can’t, won’t, bring him to Greg’s without precipitating everything he’s been trying to avoid.

He doesn’t even know how Lestrade will react – although they do have a young family plonked in the place at the moment and he’s been more tolerant than Mycroft would have been. Even when they painted tippex stars on his DMs.

‘Won’t be here long anyway.’ He’d told Mycroft. ‘The council are just trying it on, making sure they haven’t got somewhere else to go.’

It’s those girls that find him and Sherlock, dithering on the pavement like idiots. Mum in yellow and black nail polish, twins in different coloured hair ribbons so they can be told apart easily.

‘Hello Mike.’ They chorus on their way past, and it takes him a moment to realise they’re talking to him. Greg has never called him Mike to his face. Sherlock stares, absolutely fascinated, and one of the twins stares back, face blank until she turns away to her sister, giggling.

‘Stupid girls.’ Sherlock says.

Mycroft ignores him. Recalculates.

He supposes there’s no point trying to sneak off now he's been seen. He knows there’s still just that one television in the place they all sit in front of. Just the one kitchen and bathroom. They’re bound to talk to Greg.

‘I suppose you’ll have to come along then.’ He mutters. ‘Just make sure you behave yourself.’


	2. Ordinary World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is about to go to Cambridge; a glittering career beckons. Lestrade is still delivering pizzas and may possibly have a commitment problem. Sherlock is just Sherlock.

‘He followed me.’ Mycroft says before Gregory can form the question. Greg just shrugs, apparently unbothered. Which is an irritation in itself. Mycroft is certainly bothered. Perhaps sensing this, Sherlock is uncharacteristically quiet, perched on the counter as they make tea.

They encourage him out into the garden – a scrappy lawn, two leylandii and some overgrown brambles at the back – so they can kiss, Mycroft backed against the kitchen door, Lestrade’s body pressed tight against him. They were going to do this in the cinema, hopefully, sitting at the back so no-one could see. But they’ll have to make new plans now. Sherlock would ruin the cinema.

The thought flickers and dies in Mycroft’s head as Greg’s lips close over his, hands sneaking into his hair to mess it up. All his thoughts go out, one by one, unmissed.  
He clutches at the sweatshirt Greg is wearing, trying to find purchase as the soft blue synthetic creases and slides frustratingly over the skin beneath. It’s too warm to be wearing a thing like that, too warm to be wearing his own wool trousers. Heat builds between them, and if Sherlock wasn’t here..

They both remember at the same time and break apart with faintly guilty smiles. Mycroft is certain he’s blushing.

‘Bit less jittery?’ Greg asks. He looks pleased with himself.

‘I wasn’t jittery.’ Mycroft protests, but Greg’s not listening, already distracted, peering through the glass of the garden door. ‘Where’s your brother gone now?’ He asks.

Vanished apparently. Which is just typical of Sherlock. And since there’s no way out down the side of the building, they know he must have gone over the back fence.

Greg hoicks himself up with the easy grace of practice, Mycroft with more of a scramble.

There’s a shallow river back here, none too clean, and the ghost of a path through the nettles on the bank, down behind a couple more gardens and then some sort of industrial building where the river runs into the tunnel and the fence is much higher. Someone – Greg, maybe, has made a rough bench against the linked wire, using upended baskets of the sort you get in supermarkets, and a couple of planks. Even a tyre hanging from a bit of rope, meant for privacy.

‘I have a fag here sometimes.’ He explains, bending under the bench and coming up with a pair of children’s shoes. ‘Must’ve gone in the river then.’

‘He wouldn’t be able to resist exploring that tunnel.’ Mycroft says resignedly. ‘It’s exactly the kind of thing that would attract him.’

‘Better get after him then.’ Greg doesn’t bother taking his own boots off. Just jumps in as he is, jeans and all. ‘I’ll go. You stay here.’

‘He is my brother.’ Mycroft points out. ‘You don’t have to..’

Gregory has a good answer to that, namely that he has clothes indoors to change into, and it’s his fault in a way because he knew a determined kid could get over the fence. But he doesn’t have the patience to argue, and the sooner they find Sherlock the better all round. So he just waves Mycroft to silence and wades off as fast as the current will allow, a wake of water streaming at each side.

Mycroft slumps. He doesn’t suppose Greg means to humiliate him, but it is rather the effect.

It’s dark in the tunnel after the sunshine, and it smells of damp and dirt and other things Greg doesn’t want to think about. He has to stand just inside the entrance and blink a bit before he moves on, fingers just touching the brickwork to steer himself as he gets deeper, but he thinks he can see a faint light up ahead. Probably a torch.

Definitely a torch, it skitters over the arch, fixes a moment, then turns steadily like a lighthouse beam into Lestrade’s eyes as he catches up with it. .

‘Oi.’ He says. ‘Don’t do that.’

‘Sorry.’ Sherlock goes back to examining the wall as Greg joins him. Pointing the torch where a yellowish green tag has been sprayed on the dull black of the tunnel. ‘Look.’ He says. ‘There’s another one just like this on the corner where the billboard is. I saw it on the way. If we walked around the neighbourhood we could probably mark out all the territory.’

‘Yeah.’ Lestrade tells him, a bit surprised to find Sherlock so excited. ‘We’re not doing that.’

‘This ones interesting too. I’ve seen it outside Angel underground station – Mummy goes there for jewellery. Do any of your neighbours frequent that part of London?’

‘I don’t know where my neighbours frequent.’ The slight emphasis on the last word makes Sherlock turn the torch on him again, puzzled.

‘Do you have a tag?’ He asks.

‘Nah.’

‘Aren’t you in a gang?’ He sounds disappointed. Greg can’t help wondering what newspapers he’s been reading. Also why he isn’t cold. Greg is freezing, Sherlock seems impervious.

‘Not my style. Sorry.’ He shrugs, tries not to shiver. ‘Why are you interested in all this stuff anyway?’

‘That’s what everyone asks.’ Sherlock complains. ‘Even Mycroft.’

‘Well fair enough.’

‘Mycroft says people are born into layers.. societal layers, cultural layers, financial.. and then they mostly stay there, where they’re born. So people like us don’t normally wonder about things like this.’

‘Does he now?’ Greg is vaguely insulted, not quite sure why.

‘That’s why people think we’re funny – me and Mycroft. Because we wonder about everything. All the things, all the time.’

‘And why's that then?’

‘It’s interesting.’

Lestrade finally loses patience. ‘Sherlock we are up to our knees – my knees – in the bloody Wandle here. It’s freezing. Can we get back please?’

‘Aren’t you tempted to explore where this tunnel goes?’

‘I know where it goes. It goes under the factory and comes out behind the stadium. Where half a thousand fans piss in it after every match and the stallholders in the market on Wednesday morning chuck their leftovers in it. And we’re downstream of that, by the way.’

‘You don’t look like such a delicate flower.’ Sherlock complains. ‘Obviously I expect that sort of thing from Mycroft.’

‘You’re a cheeky little sod aren’t you?’

‘I’ve done judo you know.’

Lestrade creases with laughter at the sheer bravado of that wobbling treble voice. Sherlock’s stance, slightly wilting, torch pointed down at the running water, and his wide, outraged eyes, just make it that much funnier.

His hilarity echoes in the tunnel, and Sherlock sniffs and turns with as much dignity as possible to go back the way they've come, taking the torch with him.

Greg follows, still grinning. Even more amused when Sherlock refuses his brother’s help of a hand out, clambering up on the skinny trunk of a willow instead. Lestrade slips a little, boots struggling to find purchase on the mud, but Mycroft has him by the wrist, and he manages to stay upright.

‘He found some graffiti.’ Greg explains.

‘Of course he did.’

‘It was interesting.’ Sherlock sounds sulky. ‘And I’m not going to tell you anything about it because your boyfriend laughed at me and called me a sod.’ Sherlock makes it to the bank without incident and stands with arms folded. ‘And he swears a lot. And I’m not as much of a sod as he is.’ He glares at Greg, who’s still smirking at the childishness of the strop Sherlock is having.

‘Come on, let’s get back.’ Mycroft says wearily. He’d known this would be a disaster.


	3. Ordinary World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is about to go to Cambridge; a glittering career beckons. Lestrade is still delivering pizzas and may possibly have a commitment problem. Sherlock is just Sherlock.

‘See if you can get him to put these on while his own stuff dries out.’ Greg rummages in the chest of drawers in his bedroom, comes out with an old pair of tracksuit bottoms. They might fit Sherlock in a pinch, with a safety pin or two, but Mycroft already knows he won’t wear them.

‘He hates being laughed at.’

‘Well he better get used to it. He’s bloody hilarious.’ Greg has slid out of his blue jeans and fetched a black pair – faded, greyish, from what is clearly the laundry basket. Button fly, worn in. A pair of tired looking trainers without socks complete the ensemble. ’Scuse me.’ And he’s out and back over the fence again, as if he’s just thought of something.

‘Do you think its drugs?’ Sherlock asks excitedly.

‘Really Sherlock.’ Mycroft protests, although he can’t think of an alternative explanation. Greg’s behaviour is completely consistent with someone who’s just realised an eight year old may have found something illicit.

‘It might be dope. One of the receptionists smokes dope.’

‘Sherlock, that’s enough.’

It’s a pity about this really, Greg knows it doesn’t look good. But if Sherlock has found his stash he needs to know now, not wait until the little idiot tries to smoke it and poisons himself. The whole point of keeping it out of the house was so the girls weren’t exposed to it.

He’s never having kids. They’re such a pain.

Sherlock hasn’t, though, disturbed anything. The tin is still wedged into the tyre, and the contents are intact. He puts it back and folds a bit of rag in over the top, flops down on the bench a moment.

It’s a beautiful day. It’ll probably be a nice evening later, the sort he likes to come to this secret spot. Except it’s not secret now. It’s been found out. They always are eventually. Never was really private anyway, someone’s been past, into the tunnel, to spray that graffiti.

He supposes he should get back. Neither brother says anything as he comes back through the garden, although he swears he can hear them thinking.

Doesn’t matter. He tips the stewed tea down the sink, fetches three little bottles of panda cola from the fridge and his boots from the bedroom. They’ll dry better in the sun.

‘Here.’ He says to Sherlock.

‘I don’t want it.’

‘Well just leave it then.’ Greg puts his boots on the scrubby grass and sits down with his own bottle.

‘You’ll have to open it anyway. Mycroft won’t be strong enough.’

Greg doesn’t comment on that, just opens the bottle and hands it back to Sherlock, who wanders off with it again, looking for early blackberries in the tangle at the back of the garden. His wet trousers flapping round his ankles.

Mycroft sits on the grass by Lestrade, arms wrapped around his legs, conscious of his own awkwardness.

‘I should ring my mother, she’ll be wondering where Sherlock is.’

‘Phone’s in the hall.’ Greg rolls on his stomach and watches Mycroft back into the house. Hopefully he’ll loosen up a bit once he’s had that difficult conversation. He’s stiff as a board right now. If they were alone Greg could kiss it away, but he doesn’t know what words to use. He’s not even sure words would help at this stage.

People worry too bloody much about what their parents think anyway. Mycroft has definitely lied to his, Greg doesn’t need to hear him do it to know it, and he doesn’t want to hear the specifics either. Doesn't matter anyway. The world is probably full of things Mycroft's parents would prefer he did than Greg.

It's going nowhere, him and Mycroft, they've been kidding themselves to think it might.

Which is a shame but not a surprise.

The cola isn’t all that fizzy but it is pleasantly cold. Greg rucks up his sweatshirt and rests it on his stomach as he lays back in the grass. It’s certainly a beautiful day. Too nice for the cinema really.

Sherlock has found a split tennis ball somewhere in the brambles and is trying to bounce it against the wall of the house. Good luck with that, Greg thinks idly, listening to the hollow thud of it repeat against the brickwork, sun on his eyelids. He lets his thoughts drift.

‘Are you asleep?’ Lestrade is woken from a slight doze by Sherlock standing over him, looking serious in the way only a child can. ‘Mycroft says Mummy wants us back right now.’

‘Sorry.’ Mycroft says.

‘Are you?’ Greg asks - because he can’t be that sorry, can he? If he was he could have refused, even if it led to a row. It probably suits him really, since he didn’t want Sherlock here in the first place. He’s still not comfortable now.

Greg doesn’t see them to the bus stop.


	4. Ordinary World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is about to go to Cambridge; a glittering career beckons. Lestrade is still delivering pizzas and may possibly have a commitment problem. Sherlock is just Sherlock.

‘I’m not at all pleased with either of you.’ Mummy is as close to a towering rage as Mycroft has ever seen her, her voice tight and hard with anger and her face – even her lips – white with lingering fright. She has wrapped a hand round each of Sherlock’s skinny biceps so that he is forced to look right at her, and Mycroft suspects she may even be thinking about shaking him.

‘You gave me the most enormous fright.’ She bites out the words. ‘Promise me that you will never do such a thing again.’

‘I only wanted to know where Mycroft was going.’ Sherlock opens his eyes very big and wide in a hideous display of ingenuousness. If Mummy wasn't holding him so tightly he'd probably shake his curls at her as well. ‘I didn’t think about you being worried.’

‘Well you most certainly should have thought. You’re quite old enough to consider other people.’ She releases him with a little push away. ‘Go to your room. I’ll deal with you later.’

‘But Mummy..’

‘Don’t argue with me. Go.’

Sherlock looks confused and upset by the raised voice and Mycroft has a moment of unwilling empathy. Sherlock really didn’t mean to cause Mummy to panic any more than he meant to spoil Mycroft’s time with Greg. He's just wants an independence he isn't ready for.

It is probably not a tactful move, however, for him to try to slam the door on the way out.

There is a breathless pause before Mummy turns to Mycroft, who is now looking at the floor. He has had to admit already that he was not in Piccadilly as stated, that he was meeting someone, and that no, it was not someone from school.

Mummy had seemed very calm then, on the phone, but Mycroft could tell it was the tactical calm of someone who wanted other people to do as she said with as little fuss as possible. Her only comment on being told where they really were was to ask how quickly they could make the journey. Mycroft isn’t sure Mummy really knows where the Old Kent Road is except on a Monopoly board but even that should give her some indication of the kind of area it is.

It occurs to Mycroft that his mother still hasn’t actually said anything to him. He looks up to catch her eye, but her eyes are fixed on her folded hands. She’s sitting down but it has the air of a collapse, her spine crumpled where usually it would be upright. Her skin looks thinner, like paper with veins running underneath.

Mycroft is ready for the floor to open up and eat him. If he’d noticed Sherlock, or if there had been no reason for Sherlock to want to follow him, or if he hadn’t been telling lies in the first place, he could have spared his mother all this.

‘I’m not going to ask Sherlock who you went to see.’ Mummy says slowly, choosing her words. ‘It would only reinforce his opinion that he’s done something terribly clever. I will only say that it can hardly be a suitable friendship if you feel the need to hide it from your father and myself.’

That burns, maybe because he’s been trying hard not to think the same sort of thing himself, and Mycroft’s guilt evaporates.

‘I don’t have to tell you everything.’ He says. ‘I’m not a child.’

‘Is it the same young man Oscar Lyons told us about?’

Mycroft is temporarily distracted by the fact that Mr Lyons’ Christian name is apparently Oscar. He’d never even thought of the man as having another name. As for Lestrade..

‘I like him.’ He’s still sure of that anyway, whatever other doubts he has.

‘I’m not telling you who you should be friends with Mycroft. I quite agree that you’re no longer a child.’ She’s at the door now, and Mycroft just knows there’s going to be a nasty parting shot. ‘I will only remind you that adults don’t sneak behind their parents’ backs or make up stories about where they’re going just because telling the truth is a little bit awkward.’

Mycroft can feel the blush prickling under his skin. He’s sure what Mummy is saying is terribly unfair, but he’s not quite sure why; and before he can get his thoughts in order and respond, she’s gone to deal with Sherlock.

 

‘I shouldn’t think she’s much bothered anyway.’ Greg points out. They’ve got the place to themselves at the moment, the twins and their mother moved on to something more suitable for a family and the only other current tenant down the pub. He has a modest flutter on the horses every week, and just sometimes, like now, they come in. ‘You’re off to Cambridge soon aren’t you?’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Only that you’ll have the opportunity to make more suitable friends.’ It’s not that warm in here until the gas fire gets going, and perhaps that’s why Greg still has his jacket on. It’s new leather, shiny. Like armour, like camouflage. No-one can see how skinny he still is under it. He could be almost any age. ‘It's alright - I’m not bothered.’ He says, eyes fixed firmly on whatever drivel is on the tv, letting it wash over him like anaesthetic. ‘People drift in and out of each other’s lives. It’s normal.’

‘It’s not been normal in my life.'

‘Well you’ve been bloody lucky then.’

‘Evidently.’

But Greg doesn't answer, and so Mycroft has to ask.

‘Is this why you never bother to call me back? Because you’re not bothered if I just drift off.’

‘Look it’s not your fault. Stuff just happens. And you don’t really want me to call you back anyway. D’you think I’m stupid? Two seconds after you gave me the number you had a little panic about it. You weren’t happy about Sherlock turning up. You’re not happy your Mum’s found out about me.’

‘That’s not because I don’t want to see you. I just knew it was going to be an awkward conversation.’

‘Mycroft.’ Greg explains. ‘You’ve got a whole life – I have too. And they don’t meet anywhere. Can you imagine me coming to visit you in Cambridge? It would be a fucking disaster. Don’t pretend you hadn’t noticed.’ Mycroft bites his lip because of course he'd noticed, but he would have cared enough to try.

‘I think I should go.’ He says.

Greg doesn’t look up as Mycroft fetches his own coat from the hall and comes back, dithering in the doorway without the faintest idea what to say.

’Why do I feel like I’m only proving your point?’ He asks at last. Because there’s no denying the temptation. It would make everything so simple to take Greg at his word, even though it feels more like a pre-emptive strike than anything either of them want, and Greg is blinking faster than the flickering glare of the TV could possibly warrant. ‘Please call me.’ Mycroft says at last. His chest hurts, like something pressing down. ‘Just.. ring. Can you do that for me?’

It’s on the tip of Greg’s tongue to ask what the point would be. Except if he speaks he won’t be able to keep his voice steady. It’s all true, everything he’s said, and you’d think he’d be used to it. Moving on and being moved on, different faces, different houses, kids and social workers coming and going. And like he said, mostly no-one’s fault. It’s just the way it is. People have complicated lives. Stuff gets in the way.

It’s not Mycroft’s fault, closing the front door behind himself so softly he has to be making a point. Greg mutters darkly anyway, completely aware of how unreasonable he’s being.

‘Sod you then.’ And he hunches deeper into his jacket.


	5. A Dove flew down from the Elephant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is about to go to Cambridge; a glittering career beckons. Lestrade is still delivering pizzas and may possibly have a commitment problem. Sherlock is just Sherlock.

It’s been three days, and Lestrade has spent those days mooching round the house, eating nothing but toast and doing nothing but sit in his room and listen to the radio. The most indifferent housemate was bound to notice eventually. Especially when it’s just the two of them in the place right now. Alan Harris looks up from the boating magazine he’s got spread out on the kitchen table as Greg shuffles in to put the kettle on, and decides he’s ignored it long enough.

‘You had a tiff with your mate then?’ He asks. He’s got this funny way of pretending he doesn’t realise Greg and Mycroft aren’t just friends, which might be because the idea disturbs him, or might be because it used to be illegal and not to be openly discussed. Mycroft worked that much out. Greg would have gone on believing the mistake was genuine if Mycroft hadn’t explained why it couldn’t be. Now it seems obvious – no-one says ‘tiff’ when they’re talking about friends falling out. Tiffs are things lovers have. 

Greg shrugs, doesn’t want to talk about it. ‘He said I never ring him. He’s the one who’s buggering off in a few weeks.’ 

‘You’re a right pair of girls, aren’t you?’ Alan goes back to his paper. ‘Look at this. King’s Gem, 45 foot liveaboard, new engine.’ That’s Alan’s plan now, if he gets a big win, buy a barge to live on and travel about the country. Free mooring so long as you keep moving, and he reckons his pension would cover fuel and food. It seems dead unlikely to work out, as far as Greg can see, because he’d need to win ten grand at least, but planning it keeps the old boy going. 

Still he’s not in the mood to wax enthusiastic, so he just shrugs again and gets on with making the tea. Alan takes four heaped spoonsful of sugar. Even more than Mycroft. 

Greg decides he needs to take a look at himself and check he isn't a girl. It seems he can’t even make a cup of bloody tea without thinking fondly about how Mycroft takes it.

Alright, this is ridiculous. He’ll have to ring. One way or another, he’ll know where he stands then. 

 

‘Hello.’ Mycroft’s mother sounds frightfully posh on the telephone. Far more than Mycroft. Mycroft just sounds precise, like someone who’s had elocution lessons. 

‘Hello. Can I speak to Mycroft please?’ 

Mrs Holmes, on her side, is surprised the caller doesn’t give a name. Superfluous of course, the accent makes it quite clear who it must be, but surely normal when asking for someone.

‘I’ll see whether I can find him.’ She lies, setting the receiver down and leaving the room. She may not care for Mycroft’s infatuation with this person but she isn’t heartless enough to actually listen to him realise he’s not going to get to speak to Mycroft ever again if she can help it. 

Which is why she’s not there when Sherlock wanders out of his own room and finds the phone off the hook, tinny sounds coming out of it. Seeing it idle, he naturally picks it up. 

‘Hello?’ 

‘Sherlock?’ Greg perks up. This is not as good as Mycroft, but infinitely better than Mycroft’s mother. An ally, possibly. ‘Found any good graffiti recently?’ 

‘No. I’m not allowed out of the suite. It’s completely stupid. I’m going out of my mind.’ He sounds very bitter about it. ‘Are you angry with me as well?’ 

‘Not especially.’

‘Well you’re in a minority then. Mummy’s still seething. Daddy is cross I upset Mummy and Mycroft is no fun to be around at all. I’m sure it’s not my fault if you’ve had a row.’ He pauses long enough for Greg to frame a response, then cuts in with. ‘Have you had a row?’ 

‘Not exactly. Is Mycroft about?’

‘In his room I think. Was Mummy meant to be fetching him? I don’t think she is fetching him. Which is very sneaky. Especially when she told Mycroft adults don’t sneak behind people’s backs.’

Lestrade suppresses the impulse to say what he wants to say about Mycroft and Sherlock’s mother. There’s no opportunity anyway. Sherlock is still rattling on. ‘Don’t tell Mycroft I said that. I wasn’t supposed to be listening.’

‘Right.’

‘I put my ear to the keyhole.’ 

‘Fair enough.’ In Greg’s experience it’s sometimes the only way to find out what people have planned for you. ‘Sherlock..’

‘You want me to get Mycroft don’t you?’ 

‘Yes please.’ Greg checks his watch and mentally adds a small sum of money to his share of the phone bill. 

‘Right you are then.’

 

The next sound Lestrade hears - thankfully quickly - is Mycroft's voice getting louder as he lifts the receiver while still talking to Sherlock.

'Yes, thank you Sherlock. Now go.'

'I was helping.' Sherlock protests, but perhaps he does go, because Mycroft is now speaking, gingerly, into the phone.

'Greg?'

'Hello.' Lestrade hasn't thought past this bit. 'Do you want to come round?’ There, he’s said something. 'Any time, I mean..'

'This evening?'

'If you like. I mean yeah, that’d be good.' Greg wonders why the bloody hell he can't sound less casual - his knuckles are white where he's clutching the receiver. Maybe he doesn't sound as laid back as he thinks though, because Mycroft responds immediately. More confidently.

'I’ll leave now.' 

'Good.. good.' 

Which it is. Probably.


	6. A Dove flew down from the Elephant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is about to go to Cambridge; a glittering career beckons. Lestrade is still delivering pizzas and may possibly have a commitment problem. Sherlock is just Sherlock.

Greg meets him at the bus stop.

Mycroft is already trying to read the situation, work out if that’s a good sign or bad, but it’s not a scenario he’s ever experienced before and he can’t. Greg looks as cautious as Mycroft feels. Cold as well. The break in the weather has been a relief to Mycroft, but the summer suited Greg. Even in jumper and jacket he huddles against the wind and Mycroft wants, achingly, for them to be wrapped up in a blanket together somewhere quiet and warm.

The bloody house is no good, just the gas fire in the living room and a paraffin heater in the hall to take the edge off, and Mr Harris is in watching the television. They shoot straight through to the kitchen. Where, surprisingly, Greg wants to go out again.

‘D’you mind if we head over the back?’ He asks.

Mycroft negotiates the fence better this time, even manages to keep his own – long - winter coat clear of the brambles.

It’s warmer here behind the fence where the wind isn’t a factor, and not uncomfortable on the bench. Mycroft makes an incongruous figure, slumming it, the evening sun bringing out the hint of red in his hair. Greg wants to kiss him, doesn’t know if he’s still allowed after what he said last time. He lights a cigarette instead, sucks until the end glows red before realising that’s not going to cut it and pinching the end out.

‘D’you mind?’ He sets his tin down between them. ‘It might help me relax. I don’t like these kind of conversations. Probably because I’m crap at them.’

Mycroft shrugs, sits in silence and watches Lestrade rip open his cigarette and use the lid of the tin to make a mix. Giving his fingers something to do, talking without looking up.

‘Jimmy gave me my first spliff.’ He says after a bit. ‘I was fifteen. We were.. I dunno. I thought we were an item.’

‘He’s older than you.’

‘He was eighteen. Didn’t feel that much older then.’ Lestrade glances up, but Mycroft’s expression isn’t shocked, or pitying, or any of the other things Greg really, really does not want to see, so he goes on. ‘You know about the arrest. That wasn’t pot. It was pills – ecstasy. He went before a different judge to me - well, he was an adult, they weren’t that fussed. My bloke was a bit more old school.’

‘By which you mean?’

‘He said I had taken my first steps in the wrong direction and a short sharp shock might assist me to reconsider my priorities.’

‘You remember what he said then?’

‘Oh I remember alright. Still don’t agree with it.’ Greg licks along the edge of the paper and admires his handiwork before lighting it, underlining the point. ‘This is the worst now, though.’

Mycroft doesn't say anything, and after a bit, Greg carries on.

‘When I came out I was told I couldn’t go back to Priors – well, that wasn’t a surprise – but there were a couple of other options. One was in Battersea, just down the road from my old stamping ground, old friends, school, Jimmy. The other was Elephant and Castle, where no-one knew me. I picked the Elephant. Got a new social worker, Sally, meant to move me on to independent living, and I thought Jimmy and I would just.. drift apart.’ He nodded to himself. ‘That was the plan anyway. My plan.’

‘You couldn’t simply have told him to get lost?’

‘No, not really. I was a bit scared of him.’ Greg breathes out smoke in a slow breath. ‘D’you want to try this? I mean..’ He’s keen not to put pressure, and also not to treat Mycroft like the delicate flower his own family think him.

Mycroft takes it mostly out of curiosity, with a healthy mix of not being able to work out what to say. He’s been trying to work out Greg’s motive in telling him all this, whether he’s been explaining why their being together is not a good idea, or is doing what his mother would call ‘opening up’.

It occurs to him, as he draws in a mouthful of smoke rather cautiously, feeling it scroll back into his throat, that probably Greg doesn’t know why he’s telling Mycroft. He hasn’t planned this conversation (doesn’t ever plan conversations) - he just wants Mycroft to know.

Mycroft’s throat burns where the brume is contained. He realises it’s technically incorrect, maybe wasteful, not to draw it into his lungs, but he’s not quite ready to take that step and Greg doesn’t correct him as he simply lets it go again.

At least he doesn’t cough. Only licks his lips where the thin paper has clung and made them dry.

‘Your friend Jimmy should be horsewhipped.’ It's the first thing to say that comes into Mycroft's head, and he suspects it makes him sound rather like a character in some terrible bodice ripper, but it goes down well. Greg giggles.

‘You see this is why I missed you so much. No-one else says things like that to me.’ Greg is relaxed now, unburdened and a little bit stoned, and doesn’t even care if his tongue gets away from him. ‘It’s not even about sex – well partly it’s about sex – but you’re just so.. you.’

‘Come down to Cambridge.’ Mycroft suggests. ‘It might be awful, every bit of the disaster we’re both expecting, but at least it won’t be because we didn’t try.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yes. Entirely.’

‘Ok then.’ Lestrade says, screwing up the very last of his spliff between thumb and forefinger and flicking it into the river. He’s not hurting anything. He’d bet good money there’s no fish in that river. ‘Bring it on.'


	7. A Dove flew down from the Elephant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is about to go to Cambridge; a glittering career beckons. Lestrade is still delivering pizzas and may possibly have a commitment problem. Sherlock is just Sherlock.

Mycroft makes a point of ringing his mother to tell her he won’t be back and not to worry. She sounds pleased he's called, but distantly so, unable to hide her disappointment about where he’s gone. She’s never been a particularly good actress. 

‘And your father’s here. He’ll be sorry to have missed you.’ 

‘I’ll wait up for him tomorrow night.’ Mycroft would, actually, like to see his father. He’s been extraordinarily busy at work though. Normally when the House is in recess things ease off a little. This year it doesn’t seem to have made a dent. It’s impossible not to be curious why, and Father’s explanations are always of interest. 

‘Alright darling, but you will be back in time for lunch as well won’t you? I thought we might take Sherlock somewhere nice now he’s done his little bit of time.’ 

Mycroft promises. This is entirely normal behaviour for Mummy, punishment followed by indulgent compensation, and both he and Sherlock have been expecting it. 

‘And I thought you might like to go to the Strauss concert together on Thursday if the weather is nice.’ She continues. ‘That’s in Kensington Gardens and may be a little bit late for him, but he’s very excited at the idea.’

‘Why am I taking him?’ This is a plan, Mycroft is certain of it, to either fill up his time so he can’t see Greg, or to use Sherlock as a chaperone. 

‘Your father and I are a bit old to be going to open air concerts.’ Mummy explains serenely. ‘Especially when there’s no seating provided. I thought you and Sherlock would enjoy it much more. I’ll order you a decent hamper to bring along. Lots of nice things. Think about what you’d like.’ 

 

‘I think she’s trying to bribe me with dressed lobster and champagne truffles.’ He tells Greg afterwards. ‘Not to mention Sherlock’s reaction if I refuse.’ 

‘Sneaky.’ Greg says, oblivious to the fact he’s quoting, only half paying attention as he fiddles with his radio cassette. It always takes a little while to sort out. The door broke off - it jammed and was jemmied open - and the tapes have to be slid in very carefully and the whole thing tilted 45 degrees back against the wall so the tape doesn’t get chewed. 

The mixtape is a mash of different songs and radio DJs, put together by the simple method of hitting the record button whenever something he liked came on. He’s just rewinding about 20 minutes, leaving it low. It’s there for noise really. 

Mycroft, he is pleased to see, has already kicked off his shoes and laid back on the bed. Pity about the gloomy look he’s directing at the ceiling. 

‘Here.’ He says, pulling at the duvet. ‘Cheer up and get under the covers.’ 

They keep most of their clothes on at first, because even the sheets are cold, but Mycroft is all the warmth Greg wanted, throwing out heat like it’s some sort of superpower. He wraps around it greedily, finding his way under the layers of cotton and wool by touch, nudging until he can feel every one of the fastenings on his button fly jeans pressed back against him through the thick fabric. 

Somewhere in the background Prince and Sheena Easton are giving it attitude, and Mycroft is tangling his fingers in the loose nylon knit of Greg’s jumper, working it up, stroking him through it, beneath it. But he’s more focussed on his own hands, low on Mycroft’s waist, moving lower, hitching their bodies closer still, sweet friction causing them to lose their breaths, lips stuttering then finding each other again, eyes lazy and lidded. 

They part only to remove clothes, Mycroft’s shirt stripped off over his head with only half the buttons undone, Greg kicking at his jeans and throwing them to the floor. 

Now there’s skin, warm against his own as he pushes Mycroft onto his back and straddles him, bending low for another kiss. Mycroft catches at his hair and bicep, holds him captive as soon as he begins to pull away.

His eyes are so serious, meeting Greg’s. They don’t usually look like that. It’s impossible not to try to kiss that look away, mouth hot and demanding on mouth and neck and collarbone. Hungrier than before, because Greg has missed him so much, in so few days, and he doesn’t want to think what that means. 

Only wants to work Mycroft into a fury of sweet, frantic heat, breathless and glowing with colour across his cheeks and chest as Greg’s mouth moves lower. 

Mycroft swears, softly but fluently, making abortive thrusts with his hips, wanting but worrying about making Lestrade choke. They’re still exploring how best to fit together, getting better each time, and Greg’s mouth is perfect in its indecency, dragging the pleasure out of him. 

Later he’ll reciprocate, still half drowsy with his own satisfaction, hands folded over the soft skin of Greg’s belly where the lightest of tans and a thin sprinkling of darker hair creeps towards his navel. 

By then the tape will have ended and Greg’s attempts to stay quiet will be less and less successful under the ardent pressure of Mycroft’s lips. 

Until he’s gone completely; groaning and bucking and forgetting for one long delicious moment, everything he ever knew.


	8. A Dove flew down from the Elephant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is about to go to Cambridge; a glittering career beckons. Lestrade is still delivering pizzas and may possibly have a commitment problem. Sherlock is just Sherlock.

Greg walks him to the tube next morning. They don’t take the bus route – what Greg likes to think of as the old Roman Watling Street is too busy and, especially in this weather, too bleak. Instead they cut round the back, through the kind of housing estates that remind Mycroft of prison blocks, rust stained concrete and rows of garages firmly shuttered. 

He barely notices them today though, too busy complaining about having to take Sherlock to the concert. 

‘And I will have to take him. He’ll be off his head with excitement.’ Mycroft has never understood what extra thing it is that Sherlock gets out of music, but he knows the fact he doesn't understand it doesn't change how very real it is to Sherlock.

And of course he promised to see his father tonight, then Greg has work over the weekend, and in 10 days they’re off to Portofino. He doesn’t know where the time goes. 

They part company at the shopping centre, Mycroft to take the tube back to Piccadilly, Greg to visit the chemists. It’s quiet enough just inside the ticket hall to steal a kiss without getting in anyone's way, although the bloke on the gate doesn’t look very impressed. Greg considers giving him the finger once Mycroft is gone, decides it’s not worth the aggravation, and heads to Boots with his hands jammed in his pockets.

Toothpaste, shampoo, facewash that is supposed to prevent spots and doesn’t. He hesitates by the euphemistically named ‘family planning’ section, but doesn’t pick anything up. He’s thinking, without thinking, about his palms cupped around Mycroft’s arse as he shifted him closer, or his fingers creeping behind Mycroft’s balls as he used his mouth. It’s an ill-informed fascination, because he never has - and Mycroft has even less experience than he does – but it keeps coming back. 

That night he practices on himself, fingers and Vaseline and _bloody hell_ it feels strange. He tries to hurry, which doesn’t help, body clamping down in protest, and throws himself back on the pillows irritably, unable to believe that Mycroft would ever want to let him do that. But people do. Obviously people do.

He’s still a little sore when Mycroft rings him the next morning, complaining that his family are definitely on a campaign of obstruction now. ‘Father is talking about spending some time introducing me to ‘useful’ people, attending dinners, that sort of thing. He’s claiming it was always his intention, now I’m of age.'

'Well maybe it was.'

'Unlikely, he would have mentioned it earlier. And even if it was - is – I can’t say it appeals much.’ 

‘Did you tell him that?’

‘Yes. He became quite huffy and said something about it being his responsibility to introduce me to society. Ridiculous remark. It made me feel like a debutante.’

‘But one with a full dance card.’ Mycroft refuses to rise to that, changes the subject.

‘What have you been up to since yesterday?’

Greg hesitates before telling him. Then he does. 

‘Oh.’ Mycroft says, very softly, wondering what else to say, because they've slept together six times now, but they haven't talked about it yet. ‘How does it feel?’ He asks at last.

‘Weird. I don’t think I really know what I’m doing.’ 

Mycroft pulls on the coils that hold the receiver to the body of the phone, lets them go again, spares a moment to pray his mother doesn’t walk in on this conversation because what he is picturing makes him want to go to his room right now. 

‘Mycroft. You still there?’

‘Yes. Um.’ He blinks, shakes the feeling off. ‘Just distracted. Will you try again?’ He wants to ask to watch. 

‘I don’t know.’ Greg shrugs. It’s not really his own arse he’s interested in, when all’s said and done. 

Not that any of that is said. He just tells Mycroft to have a good time at the concert – which he should, the viands include cheese and dry biscuits, rich fruit cake and a half bottle of wine, and although the weather is still less than good for the time of year it’s not actually raining. 

 

The rain holds off, in fact, until half way through the Thunder and Lightning Polka. Which would benefit enormously, in Mycroft’s opinion, from the addition of fireworks. Sherlock is all rapt attention though, fretting at the distraction as other people start to leave. 

‘It’s only drizzle.’ He mutters, obviously worried Mycroft intends to do the same and drag him away, even though Mycroft has always rather liked rain. Actually appropriated one of the kitchen garden sheds when he was very small, just to sit and read in with the door open, listening to the rain hammering on the thin slats of the roof and splash into the pond. 

Anyway there’s only one more thing on the program – the Blue Danube, predictably enough - and the more people who leave now the easier it will be to get a taxi at the end. 

Mycroft does however fold the plastic backed blanket over Sherlock’s lap and his own and put his umbrella up. Sherlock just sighs briefly at him and pushes his unfinished cake away before going back to the music, completely focussed, swaying in time. 

He actually hugs Mycroft when it’s over, which is very nearly unheard of, and stuffs everything into the basket anyhow so they can leave. In the Bayswater road he manages to somehow flag down a cab whose light wasn’t even on – maybe because he looks so horribly bedraggled the man took pity on him, maybe because Sherlock is always, for reasons Mycroft cannot fathom, lucky with taxis – and spends the short journey conducting an invisible orchestra with his finger, still wherever it is that the concert has transported him to. 

Mycroft looks out of the window and tries not to think about Greg, probably tucked in bed by now. The rain makes patterns on the glass, sets the streets gleaming with reflected light, and the whole of London feels new, just for a moment, and somehow fragile.


	9. A Dove flew down from the Elephant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is about to go to Cambridge; a glittering career beckons. Lestrade is still delivering pizzas and may possibly have a commitment problem. Sherlock is just Sherlock.

It rains all through the night and well into the next, while Mycroft plays cards with Sherlock and meets up with former school friends. Old alliances are already breaking down, rewriting themselves along the Oxford/Cambridge axis. It makes Mycroft wonder how strong such things are, in reality, when external factors can make such a difference. 

Which thought leads to the purchase of Plato's Symposium, although he disagrees with almost all of what Plato says - or possibly with what Socrates says, since he hasn’t made up his mind which is the genuine voice here. 

Certainly it isn’t Aristophanes, who’s been turned into a clown. 

Although that is, at least, relief from the over intellectualising of the rest of the party. 

He’s engaged enough that his mother can watch him closely without him knowing it, bending forwards out of his chair, frowning so seriously over the small volume. Title obscured by the one enormous hand it’s resting in – he’s still growing and changing so fast. It’s almost painful, how much she adores him, how little she actually knows him. He had always seemed a happy if rather solemn child, asking questions about whether the Oompa Loompas really enjoyed working for Mr Wonka, and wouldn’t Grimble’s parents probably be arrested, actually, in real life. There had never been any of Sherlock’s mad enthusiasms or late night hunts about the house – including all thirteen bedrooms – for Christmas presents. He had been an easy child to raise.

And now he’s grown up, practically, and she wonders how many of those qualities she’s taken for granted. Whether they’ve made her miss something important.

‘Is anything wrong?’ Mycroft has caught her staring. Has set down his book and arched his eyebrow interrogatively. Polite enquiry, not antagonistic. He’s rarely, if ever, antagonistic.

‘Nothing.’ She gets up. ‘Just time for me to go to bed.’ She gives him a kiss on her way past, enveloping him in the scent of roses and patchouli. ‘You know we love you darling, don’t you?’

‘Yes, of course.’ He says awkwardly. ‘Mummy..’ More quickly, impulsively. ‘What does love feel like to you?’

‘It’s.. when you love someone you just want them to be happy. Always. Beyond reason.’ 

But Mummy is answering the question she thinks Mycroft has asked, not the one he actually did. It doesn’t help him. 

 

‘Do you think it’s possible to think too much?’ He asks his father later. ‘To the point where it gets in the way of feeling things?’ 

‘Possibly. Although in my opinion more people have the inverse problem. Their feelings crowd out their ability to think.’

‘But what if thinking doesn’t help?’

‘Well then you’re in trouble my boy, aren’t you?’

Mycroft laughs. The nice thing about father is that he doesn’t ask questions. He’s quite happy to let the subject lie if Mycroft is. 

 

‘Why are you reading about love?’ Sherlock asks. He's sitting on Mycroft's bed, with the Plato on his knees and Liddell's lexicon set open - spine unmercifully cracked - in front of him.

Mycroft sighs and makes a mental note that Sherlock is now, apparently, old enough to use a dictionary of ancient Greek but not to have scruples about going into Mycroft’s room when he’s not about. 

‘Are you in love?’ He is also nothing if not persistent.

‘That’s what I’m trying to work out.’ 

‘Oh.’ Sherlock says. Then: ‘It’s horrible weather for delivering pizzas.’ 

‘Yes.’ Mycroft agrees. ‘Yes it is.’ 

‘Are you worried he might crash?’

‘Not really. He knows what he’s doing.’ 

‘I don’t think you can be in love then. Mummy worries about me all the time and I know what I’m doing at least as well as.. certain other people.’

‘There are different sorts of love, Sherlock. That’s what the book is about.’ 

‘Oh I see.’ Sherlock bounces slightly on Mycroft’s bed. 'That sounds a bit dull.' 

'Dry.' Mycroft agrees, scooping both books up and cunningly not putting them on a high shelf. It would only rekindle Sherlock's interest if they were kept out of reach.

He will have to learn to lock his bedroom door though.


	10. A Dove flew down from the Elephant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is about to go to Cambridge; a glittering career beckons. Lestrade is still delivering pizzas and may possibly have a commitment problem. Sherlock is just Sherlock.

Greg doesn’t ring him again. Perhaps he doesn’t like speaking to Mycroft’s mother, or perhaps Mycroft is too quick to ring him first. Maybe if he didn’t he’d be pleasantly surprised by the attention he'd get.

Mycroft doesn’t want to test that theory though – it’s too stupid a game to start playing. 

Besides, he wants to see Greg. There’s still quite a few hours, even days, that can be snatched between Mummy’s treats – theatre, ballet, racing at Epsom - and Father’s work dinners. 

Actually he declined the ballet. It would have been wasted on him, and Sherlock will be no trouble as long as there’s the magick numbers and persuasive sound of the orchestra to soothe him. 

Much nicer for Mycroft to be where he is, sheltered by the cotton cocoon of the duvet draped over Greg’s shoulders, naked from head to foot, and kissing, being touched, until he’s dizzy with it. Greg’s eyes so warm, unguarded between kisses, and his mouth, so content. Mycroft wants more of that. Wants it never to end. 

_I think I’m in love with you._

He doesn’t say it, but there must be something in his expression, because Greg moves away slightly, takes it in. 

'Mycroft?' 

‘Something wrong?’ Mycroft may as well ask, there's no point in stalling. 

‘Just.. you look so serious.’ 

‘I am serious.’ 

Greg goes very still in the moment after that’s said. Almost seems to stop breathing.

Cautioned, Mycroft carries on more carefully, choosing his words – as far as is possible with Greg’s hand still against his chest and resuming its slow caress, apparently recovered from shock. ‘I’ll have you know I’m a very serious and studious person. I’ve been reading about Socrates.’

This sounds like a total irrelevance, as far as Greg is concerned, but he could do with a distraction right now. He runs with it.

‘I’ve heard of him. Wasn’t he poisoned?’

‘For corrupting the young men of Athens, yes.’ 

‘Sounds heavy.’ 

‘Perhaps. That wasn't my point though.’ Mycroft cannot concentrate while Greg continues to pet him. He pulls away, sits up. ‘I’ve been doing all this thinking about.. things.’ Too vague. ‘Relationships in general.’ He clarifies. ‘And do you know what my conclusion is?’

‘Go on.’

‘It’s that I’ve been thinking too much. Don’t laugh.’

Because of course Greg _is_ laughing. Can’t help himself. All that build up, and drawing away - and then the punch line. 

‘Don’t laugh.’ Mycroft repeats. ‘You’ve been doing it too.’

‘Yeah. I suppose.’ Greg forces the words out through the giggles as they rise up in his chest. ‘It’s just.. the way you..’

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Mycroft has the gist. He just swallows the last rebellious spasms and lies still. 

‘Finished?’ Mycroft inquires. 

‘Yeah. Sorry. You were trying to be serious.’ 

Mycroft flops down again, stares at the ceiling. ‘Maybe that’s the problem, I don’t know. Maybe I need to learn to take things more lightly.’

‘No it isn’t a problem. You don’t have a problem.’ Greg says firmly. ‘Me neither, really. I know we’ve both been acting like we do but really, your parents found out about us and I had to tell my housemates I was gay and d’you know what? The sky didn’t fall.’

‘I think that’s what I was trying to say.’ Mycroft wrinkles his nose. ‘Seems a bit redundant now.’ 

‘Well there you are then. I’ve saved you bother.’ Greg wriggles closer. ‘So now we’ve got that out of the way wouldn’t you rather..’ His hand slips a little lower again.

And perhaps Mycroft would rather. Why rush to blurt anything more out? Greg will still be here when he gets back from Italy, and this closeness, the physical kind, is surely plenty for now.


	11. Or As a Moat Defensive to a House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Bushel of Letters.

The hotel Mummy has chosen to stay in looks as though it’s growing out of the rock, shrouded by the shrubbery that grows up the cliff, draped in bougainvillea and dotted over with enormous tubs of flowers and palms and adolescent trees. Mycroft can’t warm to it. He misses home - the climate, the stodgy puddings, the people who automatically apologise when you get in their way – but at least there’s shade and apparently limitless cups of thick, silky, chocolate for breakfast. He sips while he writes postcards and the woman who clears the table – Maria – leaves the pot, only sweeping away his croissant crumbs and the miniature bowls of jam and fresh butter wordlessly. 

‘Perche non cantando?’ Sherlock asks her, and she laughs a little at the mistake, catches herself, whistles a snatch of something operatic with a cautious glance as if she thinks Mycroft might object, and goes back in to do the beds quickly.

Sherlock glares at Mycroft as if he’s somehow at fault. He’s on his second coffee now and inclined to be obnoxious – three cubes of sugar in the small cup and three more on the saucer for crunching purposes. Unlike Mycroft, he’s sitting out in full sun on the wall overlooking the bay. He plans to remain there without suncream for exactly seven minutes today, in line with his long term experiment in controlled exposure. Mummy was reluctant to agree at first, but he was so enthusiastic, and his explanations made so much sense, that Mycroft felt moved to back him up. 

One hint that Sherlock is burning though, and permission will be summarily withdrawn.  
Mycroft is therefore safe to remain out on the veranda, reeking of expensive suncream himself, to write his postcard to Greg undisturbed. If only he could think of something to write about. The weather is too trite a subject, and _wish you were here_ is unthinkably worse. 

Just inside the sliding doors Sherlock is talking to the maid again. High voice inflected incorrectly, genders a bit erratic, the occasional mistaken word, but apparently fluent enough for general conversation. He doesn’t make the mistake Mummy makes of constantly thanking people or elevating his voice slightly, as if volume would help him be understood. He does treat the fact he’s not at home as license to interrogate people _\- and how many brothers do you have, and are there any pets, and how long have you worked here –_ things Mycroft could tell him if he really wanted to know them.

It’s rather an odd background to the view out across the bay, where rows of sleek white yachts dawdle and manoeuvre around one another like elderly dowagers lazily waltzing, making a mockery of their engine power and frankly ostentatious luxury. There's one quite close in with a pool on the back - he can see it perfectly clearly, azure blue surrounded by low, cushioned seating, as though the whole ocean wasn't water enough. 

Mycroft’s never really thought about money before. It’s just a thing one has. It renders life comfortable, and for most people – no doubt including the people on that yacht – that is its sole purpose. To pad the edges of life and make it more agreeable. 

But money is power as well, an embarrassment on occasion – he knows his own makes Greg uncomfortable – flowing through the world, funding coups, buying propaganda, bleeding out of governments so that they have to raise taxes to cover the loss. If you could map the system of money, the ebb and flow of it.. 

Well, it’s something to think about. Perhaps he’ll mention it to his father.

_I am sitting on a veranda thinking about money._ He writes on Greg’s postcard. _The weather is what you would describe as good and I am surrounded by sweet smelling flowers and yet my thoughts are running on economics and politics and power. What does this say about me?_

He hesitates again, tapping his pen on the edge of his cup. Maria must hear the sound because she puts her head out of the door to check if he wants anything. 

Somewhere behind her Sherlock sighs heavily, presumably to ensure Mycroft realises what a nuisance he is. 

He apologises, although not to Sherlock, and returns to his postcard.

_I haven’t seen anyone famous yet. Or if I have, I haven’t realised they’re famous.  
Tomorrow we go to see the dolphins. Sherlock is determined to dive, but he’ll have to persuade both.. _

A moments deliberation. He cannot bring himself to put 'Mummy'.  
 _Mother, and a diving instructor, that he’s mature enough to be trusted.  
I am staying in the boat._

Mycroft dithers yet again over the farewell, realises that’s ridiculous because they have kissed in actual fact, not just in a hypothetical _Baci_ on the back of a postcard. Adds that word, his name, a stamp, and has another wobble about posting it over the next two days. 

Finally though, it goes.

 

_It says that you don’t know when you’re well off.. Lestrade writes back. ..and that you couldn’t stop thinking if you tried. So stop trying before you go bonkers. The weather here, in case you want to know, is still patchy. Work is dull and Alan is wittering on about boats and has started a major sulk because they’ve moved another family in and the dad is better at Countdown than he is. He wants me to invite you round so you can wipe the floor with him. I said you might not like humiliating a man twice your age whose roof has recently caved in and he called me a sanctimonious little git. So I told him you were on holiday in movie star la-la land. Then he really started swearing._

Lestrade’s writing is a sprawl across two A4 pages – less and less legible as it goes on, but the spelling is accurate. Mycroft is appalled to find it would have made little difference to his feelings if it weren’t. Or perhaps it would be more appalling - albeit in a different way – if he could be put off by such superficial things. 

_We haven’t got the full story on why the roof came in yet. He says subsidence and She says the house is badly built. Either way they weren’t insured._

_I’ve never really written letters – I had a pen pal for a bit, but I never met him so he never felt real. Also he was French – it was through the school - and having to use a dictionary to read what he’d said took all the fun out of it. The school stopped it anyway when they realised some of the boys were sending the girls dirty letters – at least, I think it was that way round. They told us it was that way round._

The pen pal explains the neat Par Avion printed at the top left corner of the envelope, the address added to the back in case of return. 

_I could write you a dirty letter, I reckon I’m up for that. But your mum would probably read it and disapprove of me even more than she does already._

_Anyway all is good._

_Love, Greg._

And Mycroft wonders if he hesitated over that valediction as Mycroft did over his own. Probably not. 

He sends another postcard. Unsigned. Just three words. 

_I dare you._

 

_You Gorgeous Arse._

_Alright. How do these things begin? Right now it’s with a thunderstorm. The kind of lightning that the curtains don’t shut out, and then the thunder just behind, like that moment before you come where you tense, and then it’s the hottest thing ever and you could bite me if you wanted and really I wouldn’t care._

_A sticky, ‘bands of high pressure coming in from the Atlantic’ sort of storm, and I’m outside the covers on my bed thinking maybe I should go out in the garden and get wet so I can write and tell you how my boxers are see through and sticking to me and my t shirt’s in a puddle on the floor where I stripped it off and threw it._

_Shall I throw it anyway? Just did._

_Is it hot where you are? Do you sleep naked? Right now I’m picturing you in a silk dressing gown. Nothing elaborate. Blue or black and just a bit pornographic when you sit down – gaping open further up your thighs than you realise. You know how things work loose?  
You don't know I’m looking. Because you do that all the time. You stare at me, but you don’t clock that I’m gawking back. So you’re doing it now, totally oblivious to the fact I’m thinking about what would happen if I pulled the belt off, how the material would come open and I could dive in._

_Do you know I like to work my fingers back when I’ve got my mouth busy with your cock? Or are you too distracted? I’ll squirm one into you someday. More than one, if you’ll let me. I know I can be more patient with you than I was with me._

_But I want to see your face if I do that. I want to see you realise I’ve got through your defences, and if you like it, and if you want more - well you can always ask me for more,_

_Write back soon,_

_Greg._

Mycroft reads this letter alone in his room. Twice, three, four times, as if he thinks the contents might change or bear different interpretation on rereading. Or perhaps he’s working himself up to frustration. He would do better to touch himself. That’s almost certainly what Greg intended him to do. 

Afterwards, his head cleared, he realises that this letter must have been composed; drafted and re-drafted. This too is flattering.

He folds it carefully and hides it away from prying eyes, to be read again later.


End file.
